


i'm okay (trust me)

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Magic, Soul Bond, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), trials of the grasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Jaskier opens his eyes reluctantly, awaking from a deep and strange dreamless slumber. He feels well-rested like he hasn’t in ages; his mind properly silent, absent of the million buzzing thoughts that always find a residence in there. He shakes his head, looks right and left but is disappointed to see, or rather not see, nothing at all. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.He tries to move but his limbs seem restricted. It’s like a very heavy cosy blanket is lying on top of him, sweet-smelling and fluffy, almost like a huge ball of cotton smothering him. Like he had too much of that sweet honey wine he like so much to drink. He almost feels, giddy?He must be dreaming, he thinks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 24
Kudos: 243
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #002





	i'm okay (trust me)

Jaskier opens his eyes reluctantly, awaking from a deep and strange dreamless slumber. He feels well-rested like he hasn’t in ages; his mind properly silent, absent of the million buzzing thoughts that always find a residence in there. He shakes his head, looks right and left but is disappointed to see, or rather not see, nothing at all. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. 

He tries to move but his limbs seem restricted. It’s like a very heavy cosy blanket is lying on top of him, sweet-smelling and fluffy, almost like a huge ball of cotton smothering him. Like he had too much of that sweet honey wine he like so much to drink. He almost feels, giddy? 

_ He must be dreaming,  _ he thinks.

He hears a smooth, calming voice talking to him, words careful and melodic, pulling him back to sleep. He smells the chamomile in the air, getting stronger more comforting, the blanket heavier as the voice sings him a lullaby he hasn’t heard since his mother passed so many decades ago. His eyelids grow heavier with each note, with each breath of chamomile. 

The next time he wakes up or at least thinks he’s woken up, the voice isn’t there, the strong smell of chamomile gone. Yet, the darkness remains. There is a complete absence of light, the dark blacker than a starless night. No silhouettes visible that could betray the location. The only thing he can discern is the heavy stench of mould and moisture. 

A dungeon. Fuck him, he’s in a dungeon. 

He tries moving his hands only to find out he can’t. Focusing on his senses he realises he can’t move much of the rest of his body either as thick rope? Chains? Rope-chains? Are binding him. He barely hears the even slow rhythm of another’s heart against his back and wonders if that’s Geralt there with him. 

He finds he should be panicking by now, or at least shouting very loudly for someone to unhand him and the maybe-witcher behind him alas he’s oddly calm. It’s not like he doesn’t understand he’s found himself in quite a pickle, but - but he can’t exactly explain the semantics because of course, being bound back to back with some unknown person in the darkest dark dungeon he’s ever had the displeasure waking up in, is considerably, utterly terrifying, yet the warmth and safety he feels (despite all odds) is permeating and shushing every negative thought. 

He tries, he really does, to open his mouth and say something, anything. But the best he can manage is a strangling noise coming from low in his throat, close to the sound of the snapping of a string on his beautiful lute. 

And then the voice appears again. This time thundering and angry, drilling in his brain like a million little needles. He doesn't understand what the voice is saying but the intentions can't be good if he hurts so much. 

He feels his eyes shut forcibly closed and then he suddenly sees. 

He's in a dull grey stone room, illuminated only by the low candlelight. 

Similarly to before he still finds himself unable to move bound on a cot his limbs restricted by thick metal shackles. He feels his eyes glancing around and he recognises, though his vision is blurry, small children shaped silhouettes lying on uncomfortable wooden cots similar to his. 

But he does not get the chance to react, all his instincts screaming to get out of there to run, as a shadowy figure approaches, yellow eyes beastly in the low light. By the sound of clanking glass against glass, Jaskier registers that the Witcher who's looking somberly at him aims to administer several concoctions directly in his bloodstream. 

He hears a voice, rumbly and childlike echoing in his brain and he realises he's speaking to the man that has him bound. 'Master Vesemir', his but not  _ his  _ voice says. It's odd. Jaskier doesn't recognise the name. Why is he speaking it and why does his voice sound so strange? 

"I'm sorry lad," the man –Vesemir– says lowly, his voice coloured with sadness, "this is going to hurt." 

Jaskier feels his mouth opening despite his mind protesting to remain silent and hears, feels as he speaks in the same childlike voice, 'I know.' 

"For what it's worth, I hope you survive, Geralt," Vesemir whispers low and pained.

_ Oh shit. No no no no no. _ That can’t possibly be, can it? Is he really witnessing Geralt’s trials through his eyes?  _ No _ , he says to himself.  _ It’s just a twisted dream, it must be. _

And like a twisted dream, he feels the needles in his brain once more and abruptly the scenery changes. And then it changes some more, again and again. He barely registers some of the scenes. First, there’s a forest and a red-haired woman Jaskier does not recognise but her visage makes him think of the word ‘mum’.  _ Even though she looks nothing like his own mother.  _ Then he feels the heavy weight of a steel sword in his hand. Repeating the same movement.  _ One step forward, slash, backstep. _ He feels the cold crisp air of the mountains.  _ Snow, ice, hailstorm.  _ A movement of fingers producing fire. A bubbling cauldron. A wyvern descends. Smell. Fear. Hot. Pain. Burning. Pain. 

_ Undone _ . 

Anguish.

_ Reassembled _ .

Despair.

He feels the notion of pain, but the pain itself is absent of his body. All these foreign emotions, swirling, festering in his mind. This is all so god damn confusing and he’s so nauseous damn it. Why won’t it stop? Why doesn’t he wake up from this nightmare?

_ ‘Jaskier,’ _ a familiar voice croaks in the distance. He’s too preoccupied with suffering to pay it any notice.

‘ _ Jaskier!’  _ the voice calls once more. Louder. Worried. Shaky.

_ Geralt,  _ his mind supplies.  _ Geralt is calling for him.  _

He takes a deep breath, bile and an unknown putrid odour that his mind recognises as fear. Still, it’s a welcoming change, being able to control his body. He cracks an eye open reluctantly, shaking off the lingering nightmare. There is no visible light source yet he is able to discern every inch of the tiny cell he’s located. Dark granite stone walls, moisture glistening on them. Fungi spreading across the lower parts of the wall. 

He’s seated, he notices. His fine forest green doublet ruined by blood and vomit. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls from behind him. 

_ Ah. They’re bound together, back to back like in Posada so many long years ago.  _

“‘M f’ne,” he manages to slur out.  _ Ugh.  _ His tongue is numb and tastes like he purged a week’s worth of meals from his stomach.  _ Which he might have actually done so, in retrospect, if his ruined attire and the sour stench is any indication.  _

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Jaskier agrees, carefully pronouncing each word separately. “What happened?”

“I- I wasn’t awake for all of it, but…” Geralt swallows audibly and Jaskier can hear the witcher’s slow heartbeat escalating. 

“I puked and bled and probably screamed?” he finishes Geralt’s sentence. The witcher’s breath hitches ever so slightly and Jaskier swears he can taste the salt in the air.  _ Has Geralt been crying?  _ “Hey, I’m alive and I feel, well, a tiny smidge hungry, but fine. I am fine Geralt, I swear.” 

Geralt hums, low and gravely, the vibrations almost ticklish against Jaskier’s back. 

“You don’t think we can break these ropes, don’t you?” Jaskier fidgets with the metallic rope thingy that he now notices, is binding Geralt’s hands with his own. 

“Tried,” Geralt says shaking his head.  _ Hmm.  _ Jaskier doesn’t even think about it as he moves his fingers in an awkward yet strangely familiar position. 

“Fuck!” Geralt exclaims and breaks loose from his bindings turning to face him, “What the fuck, Jaskier? You fucking burned my hands. How did you- Fuck,” says the witcher, when their eyes meet. “Fuck,” he says again.

“Use your words Geralt,” Jaskier prompts, a lopsided smile already forming on his face. 

Geralt doesn’t use his words. In fact, he doesn’t even hum, let alone speak. His eyes are filled with so much worry, so much confusion, it unsettles Jaskier. 

“Geralt?” he croaks, “What’s wrong?”

Geralt averts his eyes and settles to removing the rest of their bindings, freeing them both. He stands up and with a move of his hand, he obliterates the small wooden door that stands between them and freedom.

_ Aard,  _ the word flashes in Jaskier’s mind. He shouldn’t know this word, he thinks. Why does he know it? Why does he know the movement needed to cast the sign? Hell, did he cast Igni before? Bloody hell. Now he knows another of Geralt’s witchering thingamajigs too? 

“Where do you think you’re going?” A voice, the same voice that spoke, that sang to him in the darkness, thunders. 

A man, tall and lithe, dressed in fancy robes appears amongst them out of thin air. He mumbles something under his breath and suddenly a strong gust of wind has Geralt flying on one of the granite walls. As the witcher’s back connects with the rock, Jaskier feels a sharp tang of pain, burning him from inside, though he remains untouched. 

“Oh hell no,” he finds himself hissing at the mage. “Oh you bloody whoreson,” he trudges closer to the wretched man of chaos who’s still preoccupied with pining Geralt against the wall.  _ Oh, the fucker underestimates Jaskier.  _

If he’s right, and he usually is, their bastard captor has not searched Jaskier for weapons. Which means, his doublet daggers remain upon his person. And indeed, they are. 

With a quick movement Jaskier rips his doublet --may it rest in peace-- and unsheathes his two small daggers (knives really but technicalities) and lounges on the mage, all fire and unsuppressed rage.  _ Nobody harms his Witcher damn him!  _

The mage mutters a word under his breath the smell of ozone filling the dank air. “Don’t you dare you fucker!” Jaskier yells subconsciously forming the sign of Quen with one hand, dropping the knife on the process. Still, he swiftly pirouettes around the mage, one dagger still in hand and aims for his exposed throat (vanity much, sir mage? Having your neckline exposed like that). 

The cut is precise and deep and the blood warm and plentiful. The mage plops dead in the cold ground, having unloaded all one and a half gallons of his stupid blood on his attacker; namely, the exquisite bard Jaskier, who will not ponder now how he manages such a feat and why he is able to use techniques reserved for witchers, or why he felt Geralt’s pain.  _ Fuck, there’s a lot of things to untangle here, _ he thinks somberly. 

Geralt has meanwhile recovered and stands on his feet, breathing heavily but steady. “I think,” he says, “he made you into a witcher. That-,” Geralt pauses to collect his thoughts, “was you surviving the trials of the grasses,” he gestures at the especially nasty spot of dried puke and blood. 

“No.”

“ _ No _ ?” Geralt almost sounds incredulous, “Your hair is white and your eyes are yellow, Jaskier! Fuck, you even used multiple signs!” 

“I believe… I believe he made me a witcher through you, Geralt,” Jaskier says remembering the dreams that were in retrospect most likely Geralt’s own memories. “I saw  _ your  _ trials,  _ your  _ training and experienced  _ your  _ pain,” he steps closer to his witcher and draws a thin line of blood on his own cheek to confirm his theory. Geralt flinches moving a hand to his own cheek, mirroring Jaskier. “I believe, he bound us together. What you feel, I feel and vice versa.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed, dear witcher,” Jaskier smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “But hey, we’re alive and believe me when I tell you I will rather be bound to you for all eternity than be dead, so let’s get out of this place swiftly, dear heart.”

Geralt grunts in response, glances one at Jaskier and leads the way out of this bloody dungeon. 

They will have a lot to figure out in the time to come, but for now, for now, Jaskier is content to be alive and by his witcher’s side even if that means he’ll likely never perform for the public again. 


End file.
